Composition
by scorpiaux
Summary: Kataang OneShot. It was a cold morning when Aang caught her staring at him and scribbling something down quickly in the notebook. She had written the dream descriptions for her eyes only, but couldn't refuse him when he insisted on reading. Rated M.


**Composition**

**Summary:** Kataang OneShot. It was a cold morning when Aang caught her staring at him and scribbling something down quickly in the notebook. She had written the dream discriptions for her eyes only, but couldn't refuse him when he insisted on reading. Rated M.

**Author's Note**: I admit it. I am hooked on OneShots.

For those of you wondering, I will finish the other multi-chapter fictions I have going on. Just not now. Inspiration is a funny, fickle sort of thing.

Katara having a journal has always been a fun topic to mess with. It's sensual.

**Composition:** A piece of writing, or what something is made of. _He wrote a great composition. The composition of the metal is mostly copper and gold._

We'll say for the purposes that Aang is 16 and Katara is 18.

Reviews are always, _always_ appreciated.

-scorpiored112

* * *

The journal in which she wrote down most of her thoughts was not some shade of blue, as most of her things. Actually, the small book was a deep red. Ironic, to be honest, that a very prized possession of hers should be the color of the Fire Nation. But Katara didn't mind—she thought that the red fit. Fiery, deep, aggressive. The colored covers of the journal matched the description of the pages inside. When Katara wrote, she didn't hold back.

Since she bought the thing a year ago from some stall in the Earth Kingdom, she had written almost everything in descriptions—about Aang. Sokka and Toph were mentioned on occasion, mostly as annoyances.

_Sokka is so immature. He acts younger than Aang, usually. _

_Toph seriously needs a bath. Her smell is intoxicating. Not in the good way._

She wanted to write about her mother, and about the war. But these painful topics made her heart ache, so she avoided them, and wrote only about the Avatar.

At first it was merely a pastime.

_Aang met some merchants today and traded Sokka's dried jerky for a head of cabbage; the cabbage ended up going to Momo. Some merchant girls nearly strangled him with their too-tight-for-comfort hugs. Fandom is quite ridiculous, most of the time._

But soon the descriptions grew deeper—more involved. She wanted to remember everything about him, and found that watching him was becoming more of a habit than a chore.

_Aang's eyes are a deep gray, like the storm clouds that forego tornadoes. Aang's smile is wide and inviting, but his teeth almost never show. _

_The tattoos are the color of the sky, deep and serene and flowing; when Aang bends over, they crease and bend with his movements._

She purposely neglected how these things made her feel. Katara liked the observant more than the emotional. Her feelings were kept mostly to herself, and she took a quiet, secret joy in this privacy. Even if someone _did_ read the journal, they wouldn't know a single new fact. Observant, scientific, exact—with a tinge of description, for flavor, of course.

It was a cold morning in April when Aang caught her staring at him, and turned to find her scribbling something quickly in the small notebook. She closed it upon the realization and shoved the pen behind her ear.

He was captivated, but contained. "What's that?"

"What's what?"

"The book," he pointed. "Were you writing?"

"No…I was…" She blinked thoroughly. This had never happened before, and Katara found it rather uncomfortable. She stood up and put the book under her arm. "I was just making observations, that's all."

"Just observations?" He had come a bit closer, as if the distance between them was proportional to the confidence. "What kind?"

Katara's voice was loud and detached. "Clouds!" she exclaimed, much louder than necessary. "And…the weather—it's comfortable, with a chance of rain!"

He nodded. "Very observant."

"Why, thank you."

She had turned to leave—to burry the notebook in her belongings and forget the lie she had just told him. It wasn't a complete lie, she thought. In her journal, she had written—among other things—_The sun makes Aang's skin gleam. It's a pale hue that complements the arrows. If it rains and his skin gets wet, his clothes will stick to him. The arrows will look dampened._ That was about weather—remotely. She felt a hand on her arm.

"Katara," he started, and she winced at the flow of her name, the way he said it so delicately, like an exotic crystal. "Have you ever written a composition?"

She had turned to face him, and now she was at loss for words. She opened her mouth and closed it abruptly. "Uh," she stated, and suddenly the journal felt heavy, holding all of those observations, those exact and precise notes. She swallowed and added, "what do you mean?"

"A composition. An expressive work, like the opposite of observation." He explained this with an eager grin. "I'm sure you knew that."

"Of course. It slipped my mind."

His face took on a glazed, steady expression. "The monks used to have us do it all the time. They said the spirit could escape through the brush if you let it. Emotional energy is more easily released in the arts than it is in meditation."

"That's beautiful."

"Compositions, poetry, paintings—that sort of thing." He shrugged and shifted his weight. "You should try it sometime. Much more fun than observation." And then he winked and turned around, and Katara felt as though this was a secret—as if he knew she wrote things only about him.

The day dragged on and on. _Composition,_ Katara wrote in her journal. Then she wrote it ten more times, and drew an angry face, but that didn't help at all.

It had sounded easy, easier than the observations. Yet Katara couldn't bring herself to write. And anyway, whenever she took her pen out, Aang would pop out of wherever he was and watch her intently.

"Whatcha' doin'?"

With a groan and a desperate sigh, Katara would close the notebook and put the pen away and answer, "Nothing," monotonously.

So she couldn't write the draft right away. Aang needed time to forget, and she needed time to think. It was here the habit of night-writing became useful, and rather necessary. With Aang and other distractions asleep, with disturbances kept at a minimum, and with the blanket of privacy darkness provided, Katara wrote her first composition.

It started out scientific, under the ten _Compositions_ and the angry face: _Night is dark,_ she wrote, frowning. _There are many stars—bright. Like Aang's eyes, sometimes. The stars are above me. I am sitting on grass—it is quite uncomfortable. I feel an invisible presence. _It was then Katara stopped and looked around her, to make sure that this wasn't true. She looked over what she had written, and smiled a little. It was getting more personal, she thought. Feelings were personal. So she continued, _I admit this feels different, for my records. What else is personal? Dreams, I suppose. But anyone can guess what I dream about, anyway. It's obvious, even from the observations. Isn't it obvious? Isn't it?_

She smiled again, not parting her lips. Aang was right—compositions were fun. She could feel herself pouring all over the blankness of the page, and then—before she could stop herself—she wrote, and underlined, _I dream about Aang all the time. It is an obsession. _

She felt stupid. That wasn't something young ladies were supposed to admit, even to themselves. But she had already started it. And anyway, the rest of the book was about Aang already. She might as well keep the trend.

_In my dreams Aang and I are married and we have many children. I forget the names of them all. It's not about the children, anyway. It's about him. It's always about him. This is an obsession. _Katara lifted the pen and scribbled on the margins of the page. Should she write more, she wondered. How far would it go? Details were too sensual to describe, and yet they plagued her. Everyday new sensations would rise inside of her like smooth waves, and she would ignore them. She would merely observe what was real.

So she wrote, in an effort to calm herself, _This isn't very fun for me. It feels like I'm getting away with something. I don't dream about my mother anymore. I don't know why. Since Aang almost kissed me in the Cave of Two Lovers, I have only dreamed about him. First it was hugging. Then it was kissing. Then the dreams are more defined. _

_I dream Aang and I are in bed together. It is a large, red bed—the color of this book. It is so soothing, and hard to explain. I can feel him press against me, in the dreams. He says, "Katara, you are my forever girl."_

_I have never even heard him say that before. But it seems like something he would say, and I whisper, closing my eyes, "I feel as though I have known you in every incarnation." Would I ever say this, is the question. We disappear under the sheets, and everything is soundless at first._

The memory of the dream made Katara uncomfortable. If Sokka read this, he would probably have a heart attack. His little sister, dreaming about sex. It would disturb him to unmentionable levels.

But Katara didn't care. This wasn't for Sokka. This was for her. And anyway, the dreams made her feel pleasant inside, so she continued quickly before the urge to write went away.

_We make love without any noises. There should be noises, I think. But it's not like I have any experiences to contrast that. I just __feel__ everything. It is so clear, like the night sky without the tattoo-colored clouds. Everything is revealed, underneath the thin sheets._

_Aang's chest is wet with perspiration. The only sound is breathing. Sometimes he murmurs something undecipherable. Then I'm wet too, and the sensations are gone, and we are both swimming in a dark ocean. It is very depressing. I am screaming for Aang to save me. I should just bend myself out, but I want him to come. _

_He returns quickly. His eyes are dark. Then we make love over the ocean. It is like there is a thin, solid film above it. He says, "Katara, the ocean girl."_

_I don't say anything. I don't tell him how I write about him all the time. I want to, but I don't. When he enters me, there is a morbid sort of silence. I don't feel any sensations. I don't know what it's supposed to feel like. I just feel vast. Like the ocean._

_"Katara, my ocean girl." _

She stopped. Her face had turned the color of the journal, and she had broken out in a cold sweat that dripped mostly from her hands. She wiped them hurriedly on her pants. She knew she had to continue. She had too. It was too deep not to now.

_Still I say nothing. I hate this part of the dream. I don't understand what I'm supposed to say. I want to say I love him, but I don't. Then Aang leaves, and I'm alone, and flying._

_I think it's a temple. It must be an Air Temple. There are high pillars and the floor has ceramic tiles, cool to the touch. I yell out for Aang to save me—even though nothing's happened—and he comes quickly again. This time his eyes are light, the lightest type of gray. _

_"There's nothing to be afraid of here," he says. He has bird wings. It's so scary, because I've never seen anything like it. But I don't mention that._

_I say, "Please don't leave me." It's so stupid. It's such a silly thing to say. I am not this helpless in real life. I am not this dependent. I want to stop writing but I can't. I want to make an observation. I have an obsession._

_We make love in the temple. There is only soft moaning. It is mostly kisses, which I have felt before, so I feel them in the dream, too. But nothing beyond that. Just a pressure on top of me, sliding off my clothes. Fingers in my hair, on my face, on my breasts. It is so sensual. It is so obscure. Why haven't I written this before? I've had these dreams so many times. Almost every night. _

_On the nights I don't have them, I don't dream at all. And honestly, it is the composition of the dreams that matter._

Katara looked at the notebook in her hands. She had written a total of two sheets front and back—immediately blaming her puffy handwriting and the small pages the journal had to begin with. She didn't read it over. She felt she didn't need to. She closed the journal, hid it beneath all of her clothes in the deepest corner of her bag, and went to sleep.

The following morning—not surprisingly—Aang asked her how the composition was going so far.

"Nice," she said with a grin. "It was nice."

"Was?"

"Yeah. I already wrote it. Last night." She regretted telling him, but she had to tell somebody. The experience had been too pleasant to keep to herself, she thought. Besides, Aang would be a perfect person to know that she had written something so personal and emotional. He liked that sort of thing.

"Oh," he muttered. "Well, what did you write about?"  
"Meh…" She twirled a strand of hair about her fingers. "You know. Stuff."

"Was it a good composition?"

"It was a good composition," she confirmed, again with a smile. "I loved it."

"May I read it?" He had asked this innocently, in an attempt to further the conversation. It had been his suggestion, after all, and he felt somewhat entitled to it.

Katara's eyes widened a little in surprise. She turned her face, but the blush was too apparent, and Aang noticed it anyway. "I don't think you want too. It's stupid."

"Come on, Katara. You just said you loved it. I'm sure it's not that bad." He had reached for her bag, which was sitting to the side of her.

She narrowed her eyes and grasped his arm. "No, please don't. It's stupid."

"Come on—"

"Aang—please."

"It can't be as bad as—"

She looked him in the eyes. _They are the lightest type of gray today,_ she observed to herself. "Aang, you really _don't_ want to. _I_ don't want you to. Please, don't."

He seemed immensely saddened by this. What could Katara write that she didn't want him to know, possibly? He sighed audibly and mumbled, "Okay," before turning to go.

Katara felt compelled to comfort him in this apparent state of rejection. She stood up and touched his shoulder. "It's nothing bad," she said. "It's just so…"

Aang glanced quizzically at her, crossing his arms.

"So…different." She was struggling with the words. Everything that had come easily before was suddenly much more difficult. It might have been the admittance, she thought. "It's not really about you as much as it is about me," she explained shortly, and then she slapped a hand to her forehead. "It's just so—embarrassing."

"I like learning things about you, Katara," he said. They had come closer now. Even if they were alone on the campsite, it helped to be so near to each other. "We can read it in my tent, and close the door. No one will interrupt us, and it won't embarrass you. Please?"

"Aang…I'm sorry but it's just…I don't think—" But he had already grabbed her blue bag and was running towards his tent. Katara ran after him miserably.

_This is going to happen whether I like it or not,_ she observed in a distressed manner. Aang had already pulled the book out and closed the door of the tent, sitting cross legged on a thick blanket.

"Before I read this," he began, shuffling under his blanket, "I want _you_ to read _this_." He handed her a wrinkled, creased piece of paper.

"Mine is on page twelve," she told him, still wondering if what she was doing was right. "The rest is observation."

They read in the tent mutely. Sometimes they would turn to each other with quiet grins, or full smirks. Sometimes there was a gasp, usually from Aang. Katara was mostly surprised at the note he had given her, and how acute and small Aang's writing was.

_Katara is a beautiful manifestation of the human spirit,_ he had written. _She is probably my only reason for living. I have never felt an attachment so strong, nor one so forceful. When she is sitting near the camp fire I imagine myself kissing her and taking her to a far away place, like a mountain, or a valley, or a cloud._

_She is the only object in my dreams, and the only thing I think about. How odd it is to have such an obsession! She must think me mad, but it doesn't matter. I am writing this for her. She will read it with a smile on her face, and perhaps one day she will love me._

_I know she is shy. She is a shy and beautiful, quiet sort of girl. I know she might be afraid. We were only children when we met…but I want to marry her one day. We will have a large house, with lots of children, to remake the populations. Everyone will say, "Aang's wife is so beautiful, and so shy." It will be easy to love her. Effortless. I want to save her from everything._

_She is my forever girl, composed so purely…sometimes I feel as though she was made only for me._

It was shorter than what Katara had written, and no where near as detailed, but just as powerful. When they had both finished, they looked at each other.

The tent was consumed in deep kisses afterward. Wordless and quiet, silent and obvious. _He has known me all this time,_ Katara thought fondly. Kissing him was so easy, and felt so new.

So through compositions, they had learned more about themselves, and learned that—in dreams, or otherwise—it was honestly the composition of things that mattered.


End file.
